


Skewed

by iLikeShinyThings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Magic, Dark Harry, Mental Instability, Slytherin Harry, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3687732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iLikeShinyThings/pseuds/iLikeShinyThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't fuck with autistic children. Especially not kids like Harry, whose diagnosis has 'with psychotic tendencies' added on at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Um, hi? You don't actually need to read this bit - it's just a sorta prologue thingy wotsit, meant to tell you how Harry came to attention. I've based his behaviour off my own and my Mum's, in case you're wondering. We've both got autism, though I've been tested for psychosis several times. Warning: I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this.

** Getting to know you **

**Name:** _Harry Potter_ **Date:** _07/08/1987_

**How would you describe yourself?**

_Freakish and bloody proud._ **  
**

**Who are your friends?**

_Friends are worthless traitors from what I’ve seen. I’ve never had any. Good riddance._

**What is your family like?**

_Idiotic pigs ready for the slaughter. Why do you care?_

**What would you say is your best quality?**

_I have a high pain tolerance._

**Do you have any goals for this year?**

_World domination. Duh._

 

* * *

 

“Harry, why did you try to strangle Amanda?”

“She was trying to kill me. I had to do something about it. I’m the only one allowed to kill me.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“She threw grass at me.”

 

* * *

 

 **About Me** _by Harry Potter 08/08/1987_

_My name is Harry. Wasn’t that obvious? I’m seven years old. My cousin Dudley is a month older than me and I live with his family. They’re… Alright, I suppose. If you like hypocrites with anger issues, that is. Uncle Vernon is a business man, but Aunt Petunia stays at home all day and gossips. I don’t like it there – it reeks of cheap perfume and lemon scented disinfectant. Yuck. The only place safe from the awful smell is the cupboard under the stairs. That’s where I go. Comfier than you’d expect, honestly. I…_

* * *

 

**Thinking Sheet**

**Name:** _Harry Potter_ **Date:** _02/09/1987_

**Why were you given this sheet?**

_Mrs McLean gave me this sheet because I called the nurse a horrible, sadistic liar and bit her so hard the wound bled. Then, I rubbed the stupid nit hair stuff in it and tried to choke her with the comb._

**This was wrong because…?**

_This was wrong because I should have already realised that you can’t trust adults. All they care about is themselves._

**Promise not to behave this way again.**

_Whatever. Until Dr Fern refers me to a psychologist, I can’t promise anything._

 

* * *

 

 **Black and White** _by Harry Potter 23/4/1988_

_Black and white, I’m colour-blind_

_An absolute, concrete mind_

_Yes or no, without an inbetween_

_Not a shade of grey to be seen_

_The pain is black, the numbness white_

_A skewed perception of wrong and right_

_All I’ve ever felt, will ever feel_

_A delusion, an illusion, unreal_

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Harry. How are you?”

“Bored to death. But that’s part of your plan, right?”

“Not quite. Tell me, Harry, do you know why you’re here?”

“To find out if I’m insane.”

“No, no, Harry. Psychosis isn’t insanity.”

“We tried psychosis five months ago, stupid.”

 

* * *

 

 **Stupid Psychologist Stuff** _by Harry Potter_ _14/09/1989_

  1. _Crowds make me feel paranoid. There could be a serial killer, lying in wait, and I’d never realise._
  2. _School is stupid. How am I supposed to learn anything when the noise makes my head hurt too much to focus?_
  3. _This question is stupid. Why does it matter if shoelaces are evil hell spawn out to get me?_
  4. _Friends are ridiculous, illogical, and unnecessary. What’s the point of having a friend?_
  5. _The girl in the picture is annoyed because she’s being ignored. Also, the car broke down._
  6. _I’m only aggressive because people are stupid. “Go away.” means go away, not loiter around until I threaten to shove a pencil in your..._



* * *

 

“Mrs Dursley, I regret to inform you that your nephew suffers from autism and, of course, some psychotic tendencies.”


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jegus, I'm scared. Sorry if it's crap, guys.

Life was a fragile thing. It fell apart with incredible ease and without much effort, life could be irreparably broken. Small, bony fingers traced the light blue vein running from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. How hard would it be, truthfully, to pull a knife sideways and watch himself bleed to death? Harry wondered what it would feel like, to take his own life like that.

**_Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring!_ **

With a long suffering sigh, he pulled himself to his feet, brushing dirt off his uniform. If there was even a single speck of dust on him, he knew Mrs Watson would go absolutely ballistic and he didn’t want to give her an excuse to go on at him. Her shrill voice gave him the most horrendous headaches. Satisfied he was clean, Harry broke into a run. The door was rather far away from his isolated corner of the playground and if he wasn’t careful, the staff would close the door before he got there. He usually made it in time, but he felt his concern was justified all the same. Breathing heavily, he stumbled inside with a respectful nod to Ms Gray, who was holding the door today. Harry was grateful for the banister on the stairs, which he clung to desperately as he hauled himself up the stairs, a stampeding herd of children just above him. They screamed and shrieked as always, still excited and filled to the brim with adrenaline. Thank the gods he would only have to endure ten minutes with them before his monthly visit from the child psychologist. With this thought in mind, Harry ripped off his baggy, oversized jacket and hung it on his designated hook. The majority of his class continued to carry on in the corridors, while he sat down at his desk and started to read. They’d regret their behaviour when Mrs Watson arrived. They always did, though they never learned. Fools.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Harry.”

“That tone of voice makes me suspect you think I’m four years old, not ten. Nearly eleven, even.” Harry said blandly, looking around the cramped room they had been shoved into this time.

Dr Steele smiled a false, sugary smile that looked like it belonged to a fashion model, not a balding middle aged man. At least, Harry knew him well enough to realise that’s what Dr Steele was doing – he preferred not to look at people and be assaulted by how frightfully flawed they were, thank you very much. “How have you been?” Dr Steele asked leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world and not a measly thirty minutes.

“Fan-bloody-tastic. I believe I’ve discovered a new illness. It’s contracted from overexposure to stupidity.” Harry replied, noting, much to his displeasure, that every word he said was being written down to be analysed later.

He decided to focus on scratching the wooden desk before him. It was a rather ambitious task, given the state of his nails, but determination does wonders. “Harry,” tutted Dr Steele, “You need to be more tolerant.”

Scowling, he began to twist a stray lock of hair into a figure of eight knot. _‘Strangle Dr Steele and poke him in the eye!’_ He sang to himself, pulling out the knot and starting over again.

Dr Steele cleared his throat, clearly waiting for an answer, and Harry regarded him with obvious irritation. “I’ll be more tolerant when they become more tolerable.” He shrugged and, bored with the knots, resumed scratching the table.

It wasn’t his fault his classmates could be outsmarted by a particularly dim witted potato. As long as the idiots stayed away, he was happy. Otherwise, it was entirely their own fault when Dudley and his entourage began to target them.  “Harry…”

Sweet, merciful silence, disrupted only by the infuriating sound of Dr Steele’s pen, filled the next few minutes, though he knew it was doomed the moment a dull stinging erupted in his forefinger, followed by throbbing and a warm liquid. “You’re bleeding, Harry.”

Harry barely stopped himself from growling in frustration. “Yeah,” He said, bringing his finger to his mouth. “Tastes like iron.”

Dr Steele frowned. “You really need to stop this self-harming behaviour, Harry.”

Harry glared balefully at the mark on the desk for the rest of the twenty minutes that was left.

 

* * *

 

The drive home was tense and uncomfortable. For Dudley and Uncle Vernon, that is. “So Mrs Figg’s gone and broken her leg, huh?” Harry mused, enjoying the way Uncle Vernon’s grip on the steering wheel became ridiculously tight.

Even the sound of his voice seemed to aggravate the man, but he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on him. Not with the threat of some very condemning pictures hanging over his head. “And I have no desire to waste my time at the _zoo_ ,” He continued, watching his family’s anger grow. “You’ll just have to leave me at home.”

Dudley looked delighted by this new development, but Uncle Vernon gritted his teeth. “Look, here, boy,” He barked, “I don’t want to get arrested for negle-”

“Better than getting arrested for abuse _and_ neglect, right?”

“You’re coming with us and that’s final!” hissed Uncle Vernon, his face a lovely shade of puce.

The car swerved violently, then came to a stop. They were home, then. A smug smirk tugging at his lips, Harry practically skipped inside.

 

* * *

 

A day later, Harry was nowhere near as amused. The zoo smelled terrible, like the sour scent of the dustbins and the dreadful, putrid stench of public toilets mixed together. People - far, far, far too many people – filled the area, all pushing and shoving. He had lost count of how many times he had been subjected to touching another human being and, although the contact was always brief, it really was too much for his poor, overloaded nervous system. His head felt like it was being pounded by a jackhammer and his heartbeat was so loud it resembled one. All in all, Harry _wasn’t_ a happy bunny. He suspected Uncle Vernon was relishing his torment. He was certainly keen the drag the trip out. “Ooooh, look at the snakes!” Dudley cried, dragging his buffoon of a friend, Piers, behind him.

Harry winced, marvelling at the fact that his head hadn’t exploded yet, but trudged along after them into the reptile house. They quickly found the largest snake the zoo had to offer, a boa constrictor, and went to gawk at it, noses pressed against the glass. It was asleep, he realised with a snort. “Make it move,” Dudley whined pathetically.

Uncle Vernon rapped sharply on the glass, then again at Dudley’s request. “Idiots,” Harry muttered venomously, plonking himself down on the floor to rest his aching feet.

“This is boring.” huffed Dudley and they moved on, but he was sore and had no intention of moving.

For the sake of doing something, he looked at the dozing snake. Perhaps it was just his imagination – he did have a tendency to hallucinate when he was stressed, after all – but he could have sworn it woke up to wink at him. “Not real,” He mumbled, repeating it like some sort of strange religious chant.

_“What’sss wrong with you, then?”_

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, NO! With a jolt, he realised he was screaming. The world rocked. It swayed, it became massively blurry. Was that his hand? “STOP TOUCHING ME!!!!”

A sob escaped, then another. He couldn’t breathe. “STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!!!!!!!!”

Something wet fell onto his chest. Tears? Was he crying? No, tears weren’t red. Blood was red, stupid. Why was he bleeding? “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, sto…”

On and on. Was it going to stop? It _had_ to stop. “Please,” Harry whimpered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least I tried? Describing Harry's 'episode' was really difficult. I hope it sounded detached and confused enough. That's how I always feel. Like that time my Gran decided I could handle getting a jag at school. Hint: I couldn't. It took them half an hour to find me, covered in my own blood, tears dripping down my face, shaking like a leaf, and muttering deliriously about liars. Apparently. I don't really remember what happens, so logically, Harry shouldn't either.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I suppose this makes me one of those authors that types a thousand or so words, then fires them at you constantly. I hope you don't mind. Personally, I think it's pathetic, but I'm a perfectionist - I hate everything I do. Meh.

Harry woke, confused and disorientated. His face screamed, his feet roared, and his bruised arms were littered with scratches. _‘Oh.’_ He’d gone and done _it_ again.“I knew going to the zoo was a waste of time.” He muttered, trying to think back and remember what happened.

There had been fear. No, terror. It overwhelmed him, took away his jealously guarded not-so-common sense. He was just so scared, and the sudden inability to breathe properly only made it that much more horrifying. At some point, he had grabbed hold of whatever he could – he suspected it was face – and dug his nails in so hard he began to bleed. But _why?_ “Hello, Harry. How are you feeling?”

He groaned. Not that halfwit! “Is the idiotic excuse of a builder that dropped whatever it was he was moving with a crane on me going to face legal charges?” Harry countered, voice dripping with poison.

Dr Steele, smiling that stupid smile, actually had the audacity to laugh. He had no right to laugh, like he was well acquainted with Harry, or he was – gods forbid – his friend. Harry scowled at him with all the hatred of a particularly evil dying movie supervillain and was pleased to notice that he couldn’t quite suppress his flinch. “Do you remember what happened?” He asked, gently, as if Harry had experienced something traumatising.

Going outside was traumatising. School was traumatising. People were traumatising. But his ‘episodes’? Those were embarrassing, an annoyance. His poor, dearly departed not-so-common sense… “I was forced, against my will, to go to the Hellhole that is known as a zoo. It smelled awful, even worse than here, and it was so loud I’m shocked I retain use of my ears.” He began, thinking furiously.

What happened next? Dr Steele hummed and nodded, universal for ‘go on’. “I think…”

Dr Steele pulled a pen out of his pocket and began to use the pause to write everything down. Harry had to squash his urge to shout at the ridiculous man. “I was already stressed, because people kept _touching_ me, so something that conflicts with my black and white little world must have happened and _voilà_.” He continued, shivering at the very thought of such a shade of grey.

In his opinion, it was a decent theory. That sort of thing had happened to him hundreds of times, like that time he woke up in hospital with two broken legs and a sprained wrist because he’d fallen off the school roof, or the day Mrs McLean came into class, looking rather resigned and depressed about her bright blue hair. “And after that?” inquired Dr Steele, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite summon up the memory.

Knowing him, he would remember it _years_ from now, when the incident was insignificant. Stupid, useless short term memory.

 

* * *

  

Due to his distress at the zoo, Harry soon discovered he was expected to stay inside his room all day and twiddle his thumbs like a good little boy until Dr Steele deemed it safe for him to go outside again. Boredom quickly consumed him, which, as anyone who had known for as many years as his family had would recognise, was an extremely dangerous thing. When Dudley was bored, he complained, but Harry had no desire to do something so undignified. He figured he ought to rectify it, preferably by himself. Perhaps he could draw on the walls. That sounded suitably entertaining, though he didn’t have anything to draw with. …Or did he? Harry examined his deeply scarred left hand, looking for any recent cuts. They would be easy to reopen, especially if he bit them. His teeth were unusually sharp for a human being. In fact, before he realised they couldn’t possibly be real, he had thought himself a vampire. _The book was filthy, tattered and dog-eared, but he treated it as if it was the greatest treasure in existence, taking it wherever he went._ Harry shook his head, as if that would repel the memories of his very first obsession. Then wasn’t now. It wasn’t important. Entertaining himself was. “No, no, no, you.” He mumbled, picking a finger.

He brought it to his mouth and bit down as hard as he could. Blood, salty and metallic, began to flow almost immediately. He wiped the throbbing digit on the wall, deciding he wanted to draw a cat. His supply of blood quickly ran out, but that was dealt with without much effort. A startled yelp disturbed him from his art and, rather suddenly, he realised he felt incredibly dizzy, lightheaded. “Just put my lunch on the table,” He said casually, as if he hadn’t just been caught painting with his own blood.

“My walls…” Aunt Petunia whimpered in horror, falling to the ground with a loud thump and an even louder crash.

Harry sighed, “Was it really necessary to faint?”

Stupid, incompetent woman.

 

* * *

 

By the time Harry was allowed to leave his room, the summer holidays had already started. He made sure to mourn the time wasted and was particularly malicious to his family for allowing the social services to sic Dr Steele on him, but it wasn’t all bad. His blood had stained the wallpaper of his bedroom and, for whatever reason, he found it rather soothing. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon did _not_ share this opinion. Uncle Vernon had actually shouted at Dudley for grudgingly admitting it was kind of cool. They were just jealous of his amazing pain threshold. Speaking of pain thresholds… “It burns.” Harry said flatly, slapping his hand over his eyes.

As per usual, he was completely ignored in favour of Dudley, who was modelling his hideous school uniform. The trousers, for a start, were a horrendous colour, the hat was completely absurd, and the only purpose of the ‘Smeltings stick’ seemed to be hitting other students when the teachers weren’t watching. “My ickle Duddikins, so handsome and grown up!” Aunt Petunia cried and Uncle Vernon declared it was the proudest day of his life.

Harry laughed, but he was soon assaulted with his own dreadful uniform. The first thing he noticed on that monumentally horrifying day was the smell. Breakfast was supposed to smell like bacon and eggs, not chemicals. “If you’re trying to kill me, I believe a kitchen knife would work far better.” He observed, sitting down at the table.

 _Not_ that he would allow Aunt Petunia to kill him. The honour of taking his life was reserved by him – she’d have to get in line. “I’m dying some of Dudley’s old things grey for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’m finished.”

He seriously doubted it, but as the worn fabric would be far more comfortable than new, scratchy clothes, he left her to her delusions. Noses wrinkled, Uncle Vernon and Dudley came in and sat down at the table. They didn’t say anything, either. Instead, Uncle Vernon began to read the newspaper, while Dudley banged his Smeltings stick, which hadn’t left his side for even a second, everywhere. Harry was sorely tempted to snatch it off of him. The noise was simply atrocious. He was glad when they heard the click of the letterbox. “I’ll get it.” He said quickly, safe in the knowledge that, being too lazy to do it themselves, his family wouldn’t protest.

On the doormat lay a postcard from the blubber monster known as Aunt Marge, what was probably a bill, and… “ _Mr H. Potter, The Blood Stained Bedroom, Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey_?” Harry read incredulously, feeling rather concerned.

He had a stalker. Wonderful. Simply marvellous. He supposed he ought to read it, so that was what he did.

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

**Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore**

**(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)**

**Dear Mr Potter,**

**We are pleased to inform…**

“Hurry up, boy! What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” Uncle Vernon laughed at his own joke, but Harry was far from amused.

Magic _wasn’t_ real. _It wasn’t!_ He needed to do something about this, this _threat_. “Harry!” roared Uncle Vernon, his patience gone.

His… _Letter_ in hand, he entered the kitchen, dumped the postcard and bill on the table. “Uncle,” He said loudly, “What do I do about this?”

And he knew from the way they immediately paled that it was far more serious than a prank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want Harry to be a vampire now, lol. I have a somewhat decent excuse for it and everything. But I don't really think it goes with the story. It would ruin the mental instability, because that would probably be caused by lack of blood and - sorry, I'm rambling.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did this take forever? It feels as if I've been writing it forever. Please don't hate me.

A psychological war. Harry felt that those words described the next few days rather accurately, because the letter arrived every morning without fail and the quantity of the sodding things increased every day. On the second day, Uncle Vernon camped beside the door and burnt it as soon as possible, but at least twelve of them had been shoved under the door and through windows the very next morning. That was when he began to feel really fed up, no matter how admirable the dedication was. “We ought to declare war, you know. Board up the letterbox and tape a note to it, that sort of thing.” Harry commented, idly buttering his toast.

“That’s a great idea, boy!” Uncle Vernon said gruffly, much to his confusion.

Uncle Vernon rarely, if ever, approved of his suggestions. Something about it being too cruel to hire men to paint Number Six’s house bright orange in the middle of night, but she deserved it for trying to steal his job. He was the only one allowed to make his family absolutely miserable! Still, he would take victory where and when he could. After all the letters were burnt, Uncle Vernon got out a hammer and nails and boarded up all the spaces around the front and back door, which really irked Dudley because it meant he couldn’t go outside with his friends to ruin the lives of small children. The noise was worth dealing with just to see the milkman’s baffled expression the next day when he had to hand the milk and eggs to Aunt Petunia through the window. Even better, Harry discovered his stalker had something to do with dairy, for rolled up inside the eggs was twenty-four letters, all addressed to him. “What the Hell are they feeding the chickens?” He wondered aloud, trying ignore the part of him screaming in distress about witchcraft.

If he happened to start to sway rapidly from side to side, no-one mentioned it. Aunt Petunia was too busy shredding the letters and Uncle Vernon was desperately trying to find someone to yell at on the telephone. Only Dudley wasn’t doing anything, so Harry made a deal with him. When he discovered who was sending all these threats to his beloved routine, he would give Dudley a tenner to go beat them up. “Deal,” grunted Dudley.

 

* * *

  

They were all incredibly relieved when Sunday arrived. It was like a ceasefire. “No post on Sundays,” Uncle Vernon was pleased to tell anyone who would listen.

“And if there is, we can send a letter of our own that says ‘fuck off’.” Harry added brightly and no-one so much as blinked at his bad language.

Either the letters had completely frazzled everyone, or they were beginning to take his pictures and the threat of sending them to police seriously. He suspected it was the letters, which was disappointing. “No damn letters today –”

The chimney exploded. Letters, at least fifty of them, all started whizzing out and one of them caught Uncle Vernon on the back of the head. His family ducked, but Harry snatched one and ran upstairs to grab a pen. “Fuck off,” He said happily, as he scrawled the words across the envelope.

Of course the bloody thing had to go and _vanish_. He could hear Uncle Vernon yelling downstairs, but the words didn’t really register. His heart beat was too loud to hear him properly. Magic. Magic wasn’t supposed to be real. _Why_ was it real?! Some time later, they came upstairs to find him rocking backwards and forwards in a corner, mumbling deliriously.

 

* * *

 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Harry declared, throat uncomfortably tight.

“Pull over, Vernon!” Aunt Petunia immediately screeched.

Pull over? Last he checked, he was… Stupid short term memory. It was only then Harry realised the world was moving. He was in the car. “Are we running away to join the circus?” He asked sarcastically, noting how feverish Uncle Vernon looked.

He was in quite a state. In fact, his muttering reminded Harry of descriptions of how he could often be. “Shut up, loser.” Dudley snarled, then began complaining about the lack of fuel for his TV addiction.

Clearly, he was in a dark place, but Harry felt that the bile fighting its way up his throat deserved more attention than his cousin did. As Uncle Vernon point blank refused to stop the car, the only logical plan of action was to wind down the window and pray he didn’t vomit. Unfortunately, he did. “That’s disgusting!”

Harry ignored the scream. He was far more concerned with getting something to wash his mouth out with so that the stomach acid wouldn’t begin to eat away at his teeth and, hopefully, get rid of the – oh, gods, _the smell_. Again, he retched, though nothing came up. It was really, really cold all of a sudden, as if he had somehow transformed into a block of ice. His arms and legs just wouldn’t stay still. They shook quite insistently, regardless of what he did to stop them. Harry’s head must have been feeling left out, because a migraine the size of Jupiter soon joined the madness. “Anyone got a bottle of water? No? I’m screwed.”

The rapid fizzing of his teeth was all in his head, right? Trying to distract himself, he wound the window back up and although it rid him of the dreadful stench, it didn’t help in the slightest. “Someone give me a gun. Loaded.” Harry pleaded, adding, “Or a skipping rope.” upon remembering that only Uncle Vernon had a gun licence and he wasn’t giving up his rifle anytime soon.

His mouth felt violated.

 

* * *

 

When they finally came to a stop, it was before a miserable, depressed building. Harry almost tried to direct it to a suicide hotline until he realised that it couldn’t exactly knock itself down a few seconds later. The fact that it was an inanimate object was irrelevant, for it was (apparently) a hotel and if he was going to be forced to sleep somewhere that wasn’t number 4 Privet Drive, then he was going to name it Isabell. Isabell obviously wasn’t the best of hotels and he found the woman at the desk’s attempts to make eye contact rather intimidating, but they got rooms easily enough, much to Uncle Vernon’s, who looked like death warmed up in the microwave, relief. Dudley practically collapsed on the closest of the twin beds in their room, but Harry stayed well away from them. Other people had _slept in those beds_ , after all, and he feared he would catch Stupid. Besides, the sheets were damp. Poor Isabell needed better staff. Perhaps she could sue for criminal neglect, or even abuse? Harry was confident he could blackmail Uncle Vernon into hiring her a lawyer. He continued down that lane of thought for quite a while, but he did manage to fall asleep at some point when night was becoming dawn, his cheek pressed against the window. Sure, it was only four hours’ shut eye, but that wasn’t too much less sleep than he usually got, so he wasn’t unnecessarily exhausted at breakfast. The body learns to function normally when it’s subjected to years of sleep deprivation. “Must I eat that?” Harry asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the cold tinned tomatoes he was expected to put on his toast.

The only thing going on his toast would be butter. Anything else would just be stupid. And just what exactly was she doing, Harry mused, watching Isabell’s owner scurry from table to table. “’Scuse me, but is one of you Mr H. Potter? Only, I got about a ‘undred of these at the front desk.” She queried when she approached them, holding up the letter so that they could read the green ink.

**Mr H. Potter**

**Room 17**

**Railview Hotel**

**Cokeworth**

Harry felt _something_ well up inside him. Anger, maybe? Whatever it was, he decided there and then he would deal with this stalker by himself. Preferably by sticking a knife in them. “I’ll take them,” Uncle Vernon said, and that was that.

 

* * *

 

The Highly Uncomfortable Hell Journey, as Harry had dubbed it, went on for hours and took them all sorts of places. Forests (“No, need to shake them off!"), fields (“Ger aff mer land!”), half way across a bridge (“Stop ‘olding up the traffic, yeh fucking tube!”)… Uncle Vernon deemed all of them unsuitable for whatever it was he was trying to do. Whatever it was, he somehow knew it was more than escaping from a stalker. Harry wondered if he ought to take Uncle Vernon to see Dr Steele when he decided that it would be a fabulous idea to maroon themselves on a Glorified Rock. There was a ramshackle old hut on the Glorified Rock, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. Rather, it made it even more unpleasant. The smell was simply atrocious and it was filthy, too. Harry contemplated staying outside, in the pouring rain. Uncle Vernon’s ‘rations’ – he had mentioned those earlier, as if they would be the deciding factor on whether or not they got on the boat – turned out to be four bananas and a packet of crisps each. They weren’t even one of the few flavours Harry considered edible, so he gave his to Dudley, who was happy to scoff the lot. Uncle Vernon’s attempts at starting a fire merely caused the empty packets to shrivel up and smoke, yet he seemed to be rather satisfied with himself, like the cat that caught canary. Then, everything changed when the door went **_BOOM!_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear. Harry is not going to appreciate this.  
> Meh, editing this made me feel sick. ...Wait, is this the reason I haven't been able to eat properly?


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *banging head on desk* WHY *bang* IS *bang* HAGRID *bang* SO *bang* DIFFICULT *bang* TO *bang* WRITE?!!!! *bang bang BANG*  
> Seriously, guys don't expect much of Hagrid. I kept accidentally turning him into a Weegie, like me, but Hagrid isn't from Glasgow, so I got dead frustrated and give up for a couple of days. Sorry (don't kill me).

**_BOOM!_** cried the door again, the stupid attention seeker. “Where’s the canon?” Dudley muttered, jolting upright.

“It’s not a cannon, Dudley. It’s obviously a battering ram. We’re under siege.” Harry replied, moderately seriously.

There was something majorly _wrong_ with this situation. Who knew what was on the other side of that door? If they were planning to kill him… He winced at the sound of Uncle Vernon crashing into the room, but was pleased to note that he was carrying his rifle. “Who’s there? I warn you – I’m armed!” He growled, raising the gun higher, as if they could see through solid wood, to prove it.

The attacker ceased momentarily, then **_SMASH!_**

Harry stiffened, shrinking back, and watched, horrified, as the door was knocked clean off its hinges by sheer brute force. An absolute mountain of a man, face hidden by his bushy, tangled beard, stood before them. His coat was stained and fraying at the edges, Harry noted, and when he sneaked a peek out the corner of his eye, he discovered the man had glistening black eyes. Abnormally large like the rest of him, of course. Anthropomorphic Mountain squeezed his way into the hut, bending his knees so he wouldn’t hit his head. He bent down even further to pick up the door, slotting it back into the frame with ease. Harry was thankful for that small mercy, for the unmuted screams of the sea was making his head throb in a most torturous manner. “Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could yeh? It’s not been an easy journey…” Anthropomorphic Mountain remarked, lumbering over to the couch.

Dudley stared at him, terrified. Harry just wondered why he wasn’t afraid they would try to poison him. “Budge up, yeh great lump.”

Harry glowered when Dudley squealed, rushing to hide behind Aunt Petunia, who in turn was hiding behind Uncle Vernon. “Oi, that’s _my_ idiots you’re scaring. You either fuck off, or… You know what? Just fuck off.” He snapped.

“An’ here’s Harry!”

Did being a mountain make you stupid? Harry took a step back, fearing the possibility of catching the man’s idiocy. “Las’ time I saw you -”

His breath caught in his throat. Last time? Harry was fairly certain he’d never met a mountain before. That meant… “Stalker,” He hissed, body tensing.

Before he really knew what was happening, Harry found himself flying through the air, his arms outstretched and hands ready to squeeze. Instead of meeting with a throat somewhat protected by a beard, he was greeted with a face full of smelly jacket. There was arms around him. He squirmed, trying to escape the dreadful prison, but it was no use. Harry was vaguely aware that Anthropomorphic Mountain was babbling, that he sounded like he was about to cry. Harry didn’t care. _He couldn’t breathe._ Anger bubbled inside him, like he was a pot of water that was about to boil over. So Harry did the only thing he could in this situation. He bit down, hard. The jacket tasted just as foul as it smelled.

“Ouch! If yeh couldn’t breathe, yeh jus’ needed to say so.” exclaimed Anthropomorphic Mountain and he was put back down on the ground.

Definitely dropped on his head as a child. “Anyway, Harry, a very happy birthday to yeh.”

Harry blinked. That day already? Jeez, that snuck up on him. He was fine being ten. This sudden change was not appreciated. Perhaps he could issue a complaint. Yes, that seemed like a good idea.  _‘Note to self: find suitable church to pray/whine.’_ There, sorted. “Got summat for yeh – I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste alright.”

“Keep your poison to yourself,” snapped Harry, wondering why he felt like he was about to cry.

That didn’t sound very helpful. Regardless of his silent protest, his eyes stubbornly started to water. “No.”

His body didn’t listen. “I said ‘no’, damnit!”

Was that the sound of glass shattering? Strange. “NO!”

The world was all blurry again. Maybe the glass noise was his glasses breaking. Why would they be breaking? With a start, Harry realised he was currently banging his head into the rickety wall, while Anthropomorphic Mountain panicked in the background. “Ow,” He muttered dimly, “Dat ‘urt my dose.”

Bye-bye, consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

Dots. Thousands upon thousands of flashing red dots was what Harry awoke to. He groaned, carefully patting his face to check for his glasses and found them missing. “Brilliant,” He groused, “Just brilliant. I broke them, didn’t I?”

He frowned for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of ignoring the dots. Yes, broken. Damnit. Harry would have tried to figure out where he was, but knew from experience the dots would make it too difficult a task to bother with. They would go away eventually, when he was less stressed. All of a sudden – **_Tap. Tap, Tap, Tap._** He jumped, surprised and mildly distressed by this unexpected noise, and a heavy jacket slid off him onto the floor. “Huh?”

Blindly, he searched for the source of the noise, intent on making it stop. No such luck. The noise likely came from outside and although Harry was farsighted, the dots made it impossible to see so far away. His irritation made them buzz and dance, which only served to annoy him further. “Calm down, Harry.” He tried, feeling very foolish.

No, that wasn’t working. Sighing, Harry sat down and tried to remember happened the previous night. Fuzzy bits and pieces slowly made themselves known to him, painting the picture of him meeting his stalker. His breath caught in his throat. What if Anthropomorphic Mountain had kidnapped/murdered his family? Then he would be expected to give a statement to police officers and they might discover how twisted he truly was (it’s rather difficult to be properly diagnosed when 1. You don’t to be 2. Your aunt is doing her best to make you seem normal). That… That couldn’t be allowed to happen. “G’mornin’, Harry.” Anthropomorphic Mountain mumbled sleepily, “Open the window, will yeh? The owl can’t get in, yeh see.”

Owl? Was that some sort of code? Reluctant to admit a weakness to a potential enemy, he fumbled for the window, hesitantly placing a hand on the damp, disgusting wall to guide him to it. When his fingers met with grimy glass, he quickly found the handle and jerked it open. **_Whoosh._** Oh, dear. _‘I suppose he isn’t intelligent enough for code, anyway. There’s a reason it’s called Advanced Stupid.’_ From what he could hear, the owl wasn’t too fond of Anthropomorphic Mountain’s jacket and had decided it needed to die. He didn’t blame it. That thing was nasty, terribly unhygienic, and the smell was most certainly horrible enough to knock out an elephant. “Pay him,” grunted Anthropomorphic Mountain, which wasn’t at all helpful.

“What, with my imaginary money? Shall I use my imaginary spare glasses to count it all?” Harry spat immediately without thinking and was thus somewhat upset with himself for breaking his rule of not using sarcasm on sufferers of Advanced Stupid.

Clara did actually have her mother eat nothing but pasta for two days as a cure for the flu, though why anyone would believe that to be genuine, he had no idea. “Oh, yeah, yeh broke yer glasses, didn’t yeh?”

That must have been a rhetorical question, because he heard a lot of shuffling and also managed to make out a rough outline of Anthropomorphic Mountain through all the dots, picking up the jacket and fumbling in the pocket for money to pay the owl. “We’ll need ter get yeh new ones, when we go ter get yer school supplies.”

School supplies? Harry’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion as he tried to figure out why he would need to go shopping for school supplies with a mountain. Minutes later, he still had no idea, so he tentatively asked. “Yer goin’ ter Hogwarts, Harry, remember? Ter learn magic, like yer parents.” answered Anthropomorphic Mountain.

No. This was not good. He didn’t want stupid wizards shoving their stupid colours into his lovely black and white world. “What happened to my family?” He demanded, suddenly remembering his earlier panic.

“They wen’ home, Harry. No fond of magic.”

Harry didn’t blame them, no matter how much he wished he could. “Looks like I’ve got no choice, then. Let’s go get the stupid stuff.”

And that was how he ended up in a sleazy, seedy looking pub, preparing to buy school supplies with a mountain.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do any of you know how to deal with atychiphobia? Updates would be loads faster if I would stop having breakdowns because that triangle I drew in fifth period maths was two millimetres out. It's nearly the summer holidays though, so I don't suppose it matters, because then I'll be able to spend all day writing and sorting out my sleep deprivation issue. Also, according to my laptop, Dumbledore is a real word, but minecart isn't. What.

Choking on the disgusting air, Harry folded into himself, pressing his arms as tightly into his side as possible. The normal slight sway of movement became faster, rockier – an automatic attempt at comforting himself. At least the intimidating roar of conversation had ceased the moment he and Anthropomorphic Mountain walked in. If it wasn’t for the dots, he suspected to would be able to see people waving at them. As it was, all he noticed was the cheery, casual, “The usual, Hagrid?”

So that was what the mountain was named. “Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” replied Hagrid and Harry barely escaped having a hand thrown over his shoulder.

He gave Hagrid the filthiest look he could muster, very deliberately edging several steps away. “Good lord,” gasped the barman, “Is this – can this be –”

Suddenly, the noise spluttered, fading to rhythmic sounds of breathing and the scuffling of feet. Although he was glad the sharp ache in the back of his head dulled, he had a bad feeling about this. “Bless my soul. Harry Potter… what an honour,” whispered the barman and the world exploded.

_‘I hate being right.’_ Sucking in rapid mouthfuls of air, yet receiving no oxygen, he shuddered, grabbing fistfuls of his t-shirt, as if it would protect him. He flinched when something warm and soft and _not him_ stole his hand. Someone was touching him. Unacceptable. “Don’t touch me!” He snarled, feeling the hysteria rise within him.

He yanked back his arm, returning to the repetitive action of rubbing fabric against his fingers, but the outraged whispers made it difficult to sooth himself. “Merlin, whatever happened to your hand?!”

_That was it._ Silently screaming his frustration, he clamped his hands over his ears. Jagged nails scratched at his flesh. Someone was promising ice-cream and sweets and whatever else he wanted, if only he would just calm down. “Liar!” He choked.

_“Can I have the polo mints now, Uncle Vernon? I repainted the fence.”_

_“What polo mints, boy? The ones I gave to Dudley?”_

“Liar, liar, liar, LIAR!”

Fingers, not his, squeezed his mouth open. Cool glass made contact with his lips and something disgusting trickled down his throat. He shuddered, yet surprisingly lacked any fear over what the foul substance was and all of his lingering anxiety from the Highly Uncomfortable Hell Journey was washed away by a wave of sweet, sweet, blissful numbness. Harry opened his eyes, though previously he wasn’t aware that they were shut in the first place, to the sight of several blobs all hunched over him. They were promptly ignored in favour of examining what appeared to be a blood stain on the floor. The long dried splatter had an interesting shape; the sort of shape, Harry mused, that would excite him with its mysteriousness in any other situation. Unfortunately, nothingseemed to be the only emotion available to him at the moment. …Did nothing count as an emotion? If it didn’t, it would when he was in charge of the world because almost everyone else was either stupid, or dead. It occurred to Harry that he should probably be baffled, perhaps even awed, at the dots’ swift retreat, but it didn’t feel as important as it would have before he forcibly consumed the strange liquid. “Yeh alright, Harry?” asked the biggest blob.

“I still need a new pair of glasses. A spare pair would be useful, as well.” He shrugged, or he would have, if he wasn’t currently occupying the floor in such a twisted knot that shrugging was quite impossible for anyone that wasn’t made of rubber.

He did hope he would get a spare pair of specs. The peace treaty he had drawn up when he first started blackmailing Uncle Vernon covered decent glasses, but he had neglected to mention spares at the time because, well, he was _eight._ Eight year olds were stupid. However, none of that was important right now. How did he get on his train of thought, again? …Stupid, useless, short term memory. “Right. Almost fergot about that, I did. We’ll need ter be goin’ ter Gringotts first.”

“I’ll pretend that was English,” Harry blinked, then blinked again.

The burning sensation in his eyes was seriously irritating. Was it possible to sue your own eyes? Could they get done for manslaughter? Belatedly, he realised he had missed a chunk of conversation. Oh, well. It was Hagrid talking. Probably wasn’t that important anyway. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the smaller, less important blobs, and followed Hagrid outside. Harry smelled the dustbin before he saw it, and that was saying something. Before he could ask why he had been led to a small alley, Hagrid, mumbling to himself (“Three up… Two across…”), tapped the wall with something too fuzzy to make out. The wall shook, as if straining under pressure, then split in half. Harry blinked. So many people... “Welcome ter Diagon Alley.”

“I want to go home,” He said, simply because he knew he would have had he been capable of feelings.

“Aw, Harry, don’t be like that! We’ll be quick, yeh’ll see.”

“I most definitely believe you.”

Oops, now he’d broken his sarcasm rule twice. Shrugging (properly, this time), he stepped into Diagon Alley, examining the details. A small shop, tucked away in a little corner, with a muted orange sign proclaiming itself _Spectacular Spectacles_ seemed to be exactly what he needed, but Hagrid had other ideas. Sighing, he decided he might as well dig for information.  “Why did everyone go mental? Do they think I’m Jesus reborn, or…?” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

“Well, yer the Boy-Who-Lived, ain’t yeh? They was just excited ter see yeh.” replied Hagrid, as if that explained everything, and carried on his merry way towards a marble elephant of a building.

Standing guard outside the monstrous structure was a small, strange, deformed man in a uniform with colours so bright he was surprised his eyes were still functional. Red shouldn’t be that… _loud_. And gold? Seriously? “Gringotts,” Hagrid grunted, “That’s a goblin.”

_Sooooooooo_ informative. Harry scowled that scowl that had made a five year old burst out crying the last time he used it and Hagrid, ridiculous being that he was, didn’t even notice. Watching the minute carved details of the stone monster fade into a gigantic blurry mess only proved to be a minor distraction, which was (should have been?) mildly disappointing. “Yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” Hagrid remarked as they walked past a pair of goblins and into a massive hall filled with what felt like everyone and their dog inside it.

Harry would have, should have, but didn’t panic. They approached one of the many desks manned by goblins. Paperwork, scales, even eyeglasses were scattered everywhere. He merely blinked at the horrifying jumble of bits and bobs instead of trying to ignore a consuming irrational urge demanding that he sort it out, an admittedly nice change. Being forced to tidy up because something was asymmetrical sucked. It was just so _boring_. “Morning,” said Hagrid, far too pleased to be talking to a complete and utter stranger that might decide to brutally murder him. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mister Harry Potter’s safe.”

That… didn’t sound right. If this Gringotts place was a bank like his observations and what Hagrid just said suggested, why did he have a safe? He waited for the goblin to protest, but he didn’t. “You have his key, sir?”

Poor thing sounded bored to tears. Harry would have sympathised, he really would, but he still wasn’t capable of actual emotions. “Got it here somewhere.” affirmed Hagrid, fumbling for his pockets.

_That_. That was just so incredibly dodgy sounding. Perhaps even dodgy enough that he’d remember it later, when he actually cared. He shuddered when something mouldy was pulled out of Hagrid’s pockets, landing in front of the unamused goblin. The smell made dying sound even more fantastic than it usually did. “Got it,” Hagrid announced, waving a silver blur like it was a trophy.

“That seems to be in order.” the goblin said, after a few seconds of inspection.

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore. It’s about the Yeh-Know-What in vault seven hundred an’ thirteen.”

More dodgy sounding information. _‘Way to be subtle, Hagrid_. _’_ Harry couldn’t help but think to himself. The goblin read what he presumed was the letter very carefully. “Very well,” He handed it back to Hagrid. “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Harry winced. Inside voice! Honestly. _Living creatures_. Stopping to cram the mouldy stuff back in his pockets, Hagrid followed a goblin he somehow distinguished as Griphook and Harry followed him. Griphook held open a door for them. It led into a long, stone passage, lit up by torches. The fire hazard alone was almost enough to jumpstart Harry’s ability to feel, never mind the damp, dusty stench. There was a steep slope down covered in tiny railway tracks. Slight dread managed to worm its way past whatever barrier that had been protecting him from emotion. A minecart suddenly whizzing up the tracks didn’t help in the slightest. Hagrid and Griphook climbed in. Taking a deep breath, Harry joined them. Before he could tell Hagrid to _stop bloody touching him_ , they were off, hurtling further and further into the deep, dangerous abyss. Harry hoped his clothes weren’t flammable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't realise, the unidentified liquid was a Calming Drought. Sorry if you think Harry's freakout was unrealistic, but when you consider that although I was exposed to other people all the time I still have panic attacks because of people then compare it to Harry's isolated background, it seems reasonable to me.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess you don't know what to do about my phobia of failure either, huh? It was worth a shot. At least my head's stopped hurting for the first time in months, probably because in the last eight days I've slept more than I usually do in a month (I managed at least seven hours last night!). And yet school still demands that people be forced to socialize, despite the fact that some people just can't cope with the stress... Harry was a pain this chapter. Kept getting all uppity and demanding I take him back home right now or else.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as they whizzed through the seemingly endless maze of long, twisting corridors. Struggling to breathe, but determined not to reveal any weaknesses, he studied their surroundings. It all looked the same, yet the minecart, which was rude enough to steer itself without taking into consideration that some people dislike magic, somehow knew where it was going. Cold air attacked his already aching eyes, but wasn’t a concern when compared to the screeching wail of metal rattling against metal. From the corner of his eye, he saw a blast of fire, and the not quite as dead as it should be dragon enthusiasm from long, long ago demanded he turn around and look. Too late, they were already miles away. The sight of an underground lake with massive stalactites and stalagmites was what welcomed him instead. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Hagrid moaned quietly, likely wary of speech.

“Just don’t be sick on me.” Harry returned, stroking his own stomach softly.

Even if his body decided to be a nuisance, there wouldn’t be much to come up. As a result of his earlier years, he often forgot to eat and drink, and he had been doing even less of that than usual recently. Did he eat breakfast? He frowned, trying to recall the memory. Probably not. Suddenly, the cart pulled to a stop beside a small door and Hagrid, knees trembling, tumbled out to lean against the wall. _‘Fire hazard!’_ shrieked his mind, _‘Move, you oaf!’_ Griphook moved to unlock the door, releasing a large cloud of green smoke that smelled faintly of metal. Cautiously, Harry took very few breaths until it had dispersed, revealing mounds upon mounds of glittering golden coins, columns of silver, and piles of bonze. This – thiswas _his_? It couldn’t be his. Surely, if he had so much money, he wouldn’t have had to blackmail his own relatives into treating him like a human being. Like he was important (not that he was, mind you – just intelligent). Harry Potter had no money, just a lot of mental issues and a rather irritating family. Yet, there it was. “All yours,” smiled Hagrid, and then reality kicked in.

Something that might have been a protest, or even shocked laughter, died in the back of his throat. Although this was turning into quite the marvellous tale about the Boy-Who-Lived (whatever that meant) discovering magic, there had to be a catch. In real life, there was _always_ a catch, no matter how subtle it was. With shaking hands, he hesitantly started to heap money into a bag Hagrid provided. He had no idea how much he needed and hadn’t received instructions. “The gold ones are galleons,” Hagrid thankfully started to explain.

Harry turned one of the mentioned coins over in his hand, then held it as far away as he could to examine it. One side featured a man much like a pound did the Queen and the other was a dragon that he felt looked rather like a seahorse. Around the edge there was a series of numbers. Interesting. “Seventeen silver sickles to a galleon and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle, it’s easy enough.” Hagrid continued, though Harry disagreed.

It sounded unnecessarily complicated to him. A defence mechanism against foreigners, perhaps? Uncle Vernon liked to complain about them, only most joined in instead of merely humouring him with the occasional nod, so clearly they were unpopular. The sickles also sported a dragon and a man, though the knut had a… Stag? Goat? He had no idea. “Right, that should be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest safe fer yeh.” said Hagrid, making Harry tempted to tut at him for being so obviously dodgy.

“And the exchange rate?” He asked Griphook after Hagrid requested a slower speed and was immediately turned down.

_‘They ought to change that. Customers like options. Deludes them into believing they’re important.’_ Harry mused, but didn’t voice his opinion. Somehow, he doubted Griphook would take the suggestion well. “It varies,” was Griphook’s _oh so bloody informative_ answer.

Before he could begin to ask why he had money in the first place, they were speeding off to vault seven hundred and thirteen. The deeper they went, the colder the air was, but it still wasn’t a concern. The great big ravine they precariously rattled across, however, was. Shuddering, he did his best not to look down.

* * *

 

* * *

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no key hole. Great. _‘Time for more magic, then.’_ Harry scowled, while Griphook said, “Stand back,” in one of those I’m-really-important-I-promise voices.

Griphook touched the door and it simply melted away. Never had Harry wanted to go home more than he did right now. “If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there.” Griphook’s remark sounded more like a warning.

“How often do you check to see if there’s anyone inside?” Harry queried, genuinely curious.

“About once every ten years.”

And that was that.

* * *

 

* * *

 

One minecart ride later, Harry found himself ridiculously pleased to be on the surface again, even if he was surrounded by magical people. “Might as well get yer glasses. Can you remember where the shop is?” Hagrid said.

_‘No.’_ He glowered. “Why are you asking?”

“I was thinking that if yeh knew where it was, I could go ter the _Leaky Cauldron_ fer a pick-me-up. I hate them Gringotts carts.” Hagrid seemed to be still feeling the effects of that horrible experience, and it made Harry pause.

Nobody had ever made exceptions for him and he’d quickly learnt not to ask. Dare he risk being Stupid? He sighed, “Just go.”

“Thanks, Harry. I’ll met yeh in there, yeah?” Hagrid grinned.

“Sure,” He ground out, before turning his attention to remembering where _Spectacular Spectacles_ was.

Near the entrance to _Diagon Alley_ , but where was that? Biting the inside of his lip, Harry slowly spun around in a circle, trying to figure out if Random Road A or Random Road B was the answer. And bloody hell that was a completely useless waste of a minute. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and stepped towards the nearest person. Left foot (oh gods). Right foot (oh gods). Left foot (oh gods). Righ –

_‘ABORT MISSION!!!!!!!!!’_

He was so screwed. Embarrassed and self-conscious, he ran a hand through his stupidly curly hair, trying to use the strangely enjoyable sensation to calm himself. It was as about as successful as the weird stretching his t-shirt thing (hint: not very). “Come on, Potter, breathe.” He mumbled to himself, when he noticed that he’d been holding his breath for so long it hurt. “Right, then, aimless walking or asking for directions?”

Hahahaha no. Aimless walking it was.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Harry really, really, _really_ didn’t want to do it, but aimless walking was getting him absolutely nowhere. Which wasn’t surprising, considering it was half-blind aimless walking. He eyed the shops nervously, silently trying to figure out a decent excuse to enter each one, except… They were just so intimidating. “You’re doing it whether you like it or not,” He hissed at himself, and started walking.

He probably looked drunk, or like a half-decent impression of a stormy sea, with the way he was walking. His hand quivered against the door of _Ollivanders Wand Shop_ and he tried to mentally prepare himself for the worst. A bell tinkled, unexpected and thus frightening. A woman, tall and thin, was holding a conversation with what appeared to be your stereotypical mad scientist.  “Ex – excuse me,” Harry interjected as politely as he could, freezing like a deer in the headlights when they turned to face him.

“Welcome,” Stereotypical Mad Scientist offered.

The woman said nothing and stared right through him. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Harry Potter.”

He heard her breathing stop for a fraction of a second. Now she was examining him, rather than ignoring him. “Uh, that’s, um, great? Just, I need directions and…” He looked down at his feet, suddenly incapable of speech.

His lack of social skills was an absolute pain. “Where to, might I ask?” the woman enquired, her voice cold and empty, yet somehow hopeful, as if a great treasure had fallen into her lap.

“ _Spectacular Spectacles_. I broke my glasses, see.” explained Harry, still looking at his feet.

“I see. Might I escort you there, Mr Potter? My name is Narcissa Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damnit, Hagrid. At least he's stopped trying to convince me he's a Glaswegian. Weegie!Hagrid is cracky. But still, it's sort of his fault that Harry is completely and utterly screwed. Or, you know, lost. Six and half a dozen.

**Author's Note:**

> So you read it anyway, huh? Thanks. I wrote the poem by myself, by the way. Uh, did you like it?


End file.
